


Adventure Cycling

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cycling, First Meetings, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-21 02:30:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10675839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Athos really has no idea why he signed up for an adventure cycling thing. He is not quite up to scratch





	Adventure Cycling

**Author's Note:**

> for a prompt on tumblr: http://otpoftheday.tumblr.com/post/122822636942/prompt-160

Adventure cycling. It’s in the name. Athos should have known. Somehow, his image of cycling and bikes, little old ladies with baskets attached and young people sailing around the countryside and students flying, had over-ridden his wariness of things with ‘adventure’ in the title. Here he is, clutching his bike, struggling to get it off the train, wearing who knew what that had been suggested, and he is regretting that oversight. They’re in Yorkshire, and it’s raining, and the talk on the train has been mostly about the hills. Athos has done the suggested pre-class-class, the cycling around the city with the other people, but it suddenly seems like not enough. He follows the crowd, apprehension making him sweat even in the chill. 

“Right, the first leg is an easy one. We’ll go slow anyway, keep together, bit of a warm up!” The bouncy woman in charge says, swinging easily onto her bike. 

She’s fluorescent, skin tight, lycra, with good lights and shoes and who knew what. Athos gets onto his own bike as everyone around him mounts and rides off after her. Taking it slow isn’t very slow, Athos learns quickly. He falls behind before they reach the top of the first slope. He drops further behind when the slope becomes a hill. A few others slow as it gets steep, too, but Athos is far and away the furthest back. He keeps his head down and pedals. At least he’s fairly fit. He might not be used to the muscle groups he’s suddenly demanding work of, but this isn’t like when he began running, and could hardly breathe. 

“Never said it’d be going a million miles an hour, did it?” Someone who is breathless puffs, from Athos’s side, just ahead. 

The man is big, wearing shorts and a sweatshirt, helmet barely staying on over curls. He’s got wonderful calves and thighs. Athos smiles as the man drops back to Athos’s side, pausing at the top of the hill together. 

“Oh god, I thought it’d be down hill after all that up,” the man says, laughing. 

The road ahead curves to the left, still a gentle slope. Athos looks along it. The rest of their group is still in view, road bikes with narrow tyre, bright clothes, lycra-clad bums higher than the handle bars nearly. 

“Come on,” Athos says, getting his foot on a pedal and pushing off again. 

“Porthos,” the man puffs. 

“Hmm?” Athos says, concentrating on making his legs keeps pushing. 

“Me. I’m Porthos. You’re…?”

“Oh. Athos.”

They cycle silently for the rest of the ‘easy first leg’, side by side the entire way, falling a little more and a little more behind. Everyone’s waiting when they arrive at the end of the leg. They’re high up, now, and the hills are spread around them. Or would be, if it weren’t so foggy. The Yorkshire countryside is supposed to be beautiful, but they can hardly see anything. Their group is seeking shelter by a large rock formation, and Athos sets his bike down gratefully, sitting, legs shaky. Porthos sits beside him, sucking down water, trying to get his breath. 

“How are you two doing?” Constance, the bouncy woman in charge, says, coming over, beaming. 

“Yeah, fine,” Porthos says, eyes closed. “The hilly bit’s next, right?”

“Right. Just the three stages today, then we’re sleeping at the youth hostel, then four stages tomorrow and the train home.”

“So the next is hills, and then?” Porthos asks. 

“Then it’s mostly flat, a little downhill,” Constance says. “I’ll show you the gradients on the maps, if you like.”

“Yeah, maybe for tomorrow,” Porthos says. 

“Great! Ninon’s going to drop back a bit, this next stage. It’s a straightforward route, just steep. She’ll keep pace with the slower lot, I’ll race ahead with the ambitious among us. She’ll wait for you if the route isn’t clear, so don’t push too hard,” Constance says, striding off already. 

“Right,” Porthos says. 

“Are you alright?” Athos asks, a little amused by Porthos’s little display of breathless exhaustion. 

Porthos opens his eyes and grins at Athos, unbuckling his helmet and shaking out his hair, warm and pleased. 

“Yeah, fine. I’m breathless, sweaty, and not very fit, but I actually enjoy this.”

Athos shrugs, taking a swig of his own water. Constance is already getting them all up, so Athos doesn’t have a chance to talk to Porthos any more. He gets a little behind even Porthos on the first bit, a downwards slope, but then the road climbs quickly, steeper and steeper, and Porthos falls back to Athos, then back. Athos keeps his pace briefly, then slows to keep Porthos company. The hill climbs on, the fog thickening, wet around them. Porthos has to stop twice. Eventually they reach a bit of a level, and find Ninon waiting. 

“Bit of a turn up ahead,” she says cheerfully. “Off to the right, then straight up.”

“We’ll rest a minute, I think,” Athos says. 

“I’m good,” Porthos puffs. 

Athos looks at him, disbelieving, but Porthos is grinning widely, sweating, and looks as if he’s vibrating with energy. They follow Ninon, though she quickly passes them and leaves them. After the right turn the hill is very steep, but Porthos pushes on. Athos watches him, and can’t help admiring the forceful energetic way he pushes himself, the tense and flex of his muscles, the shove of his body to keep moving forwards. He’s breathless, sure, and sweating hard, and probably not fit enough, but on he goes, at a steady pace, still happy and absurdly invigorated, so vital. Athos speeds up a little, and Porthos keeps up. He’s heaving with exertion, but not about to keel over from a heart attack, and he’s having no trouble at all breathing. Not like Athos used to when he was unfit. Besides which he doesn’t seem to be tiring. 

As the steep hill levels and twists, Porthos lowers his head and leaves Athos behind. Athos catches up, out of breath, and suddenly, they seem to be racing. When finally the steep leg of the journey is over, they burst out and fly forwards, Porthos yelling in joy as they shoot forwards. It feels like flying, it really does, suddenly free of opposition, muscles still working for the incline, still working hard, bodies bursting with exertion and exhilaration. It’s blissful, the long, long curve of the hill, the fog spreading, like flying in the clouds, like leaving the earth. The wind blows all sound away as they race furiously ahead. 

They nearly miss the huddle of the others, in the lee of the hill, as they finally reach the bend at the end of the long curve. Porthos skids as he brakes, laughing, and careens onto the verge, dropping his bike and sprawling on his back, uncaring of the wet grass, the looks, the judgement. His chest heaves, and his mouth is wide open, breathing loud. Athos is a little more dignified in setting his bike aside and joining them. Constance tosses a bottle of water to him, though he still has water in his own. He looks at it, then at Constance. She points at Porthos. Athos drops the bottle on his new friend’s chest, and Porthos beams up at him. 

“Ready for a rest now?” Athos asks. 

“Yeh,” Porthos says. “That was good, though, wasn’t it? Next is downhill, too.”

“I enjoyed it,” Athos concedes, sitting cross-legged beside Porthos, getting his own water out from the pocket in the back of his cycling jacket. 

“I like you,” Porthos says, equably, as if just now reaching that conclusion. 

Athos decides it doesn’t need a response. Porthos sits up and stretches, getting his breath now, and then leans over and kisses Athos’s cheek, before standing and wandering over to talk to Ninon. Athos gapes at the road, eyes glazing, fingers tightening over his waterbottle to keep from touching the place Porthos kissed. It’s warm, his cold skin tingling, and he can feel a blush heating his neck, too. He drinks desperately, trying to keep it at bay. He’s just got himself under control when Porthos plonks back down next to him, and the blush spreads furiously up over his cheeks. Porthos doesn’t seem to notice, lying on his back again.

“Why’d you decide to do this?” Porthos asks. “Me, I cycle to work at home, and do a bit on the weekends, and thought I’d branch out. You?”

“Aramis gave me a voucher from Groupon for the pre-class-class, and demanded I go with him. He fancied one of the guys who did it. He got laid and gave it up, but I kept going,” Athos says. Then he shrugs. “I need to do exercise, and get out more, but I was unmotivated. This was fairly innocuous. It didn’t make me hate anything.”

“That’s all very cheery,” Porthos says, making a face at Athos. 

Athos blushes again, and looks away, mouth tightening. He should have just said something vague about Groupon, like he has previously. He’s contemplating how much he might currently dislike himself when a big, warm hand lands gently against his back, above the pocket of his jacket, and rubs. Porthos doesn’t say anything, but Athos gets the idea that he’s apologetic for teasing. Which that was, just teasing. Teasing Athos for being a downer. 

“I’m a bit gloomy in general,” Athos says. 

“That’s ok, I’m cheerful enough for the both of us. Come on, everyone’s getting food,” Porthos says. 

The hand vanishes, as Porthos sits up again, pulling sandwiches out of his little bag. Athos has his own in his pocket, and they eat in companionable silence, until everyone starts up again and Porthos springs to his feet, holding out his hands toward Athos. Athos takes them, a little wary, and is pulled enthusiastically up. He bumps into Porthos’s chest, and Porthos laughs, steadying him. 

“Sorry, bit too much oomph,” Porthos mutters, jamming the cycle helmet back on his hair. “My hair is going to hate me for all this fog and sweat and the hat.”

They get less left behind, this last stretch. It’s the longest, though, and Athos is tired. Porthos seems to still have limitless supplies of stamina and strength, though he’s breathless before five minutes. They finally reach a decent amount of downhill, and Athos stops pedalling, letting himself coast, trying to find some kind of fourth wind. He almost misses Porthos stopping, and he himself stops feet ahead. Porthos propels himself forward to Athos and leans on his handle bars, grinning, breathing hard. 

“What?” Athos asks, looking over Porthos and Porthos’s bike, looking for a cause for the halt. 

“Need a rest,” Porthos says. 

Ninon comes riding back for them and Porthos tells her the same thing, then gets off his bike and sits by the side of the road for ten minutes, getting his breath back, refusing to explain anything. Ninon doesn’t seem phased, she just chats with Athos while they wait. She zips ahead when they set off again, and Athos turns to Porthos as they sail down the hill. 

“What was that?” Athos asks. 

“A break.”

“Why?”

“You looked like you were gonna faint,” Porthos says, finally, looking a bit sheepish. “Sorry, mate.”

Athos wants to be annoyed, and tell him he can look after himself, that he’d have asked for a break if he needed one, that he’s a grown adult. But, historically that hasn’t actually been the case. And if he thinks about it, the ten minutes break have given him what he was looking for- that fourth wind. He wouldn’t have fainted, he would have cycled on to the Youth hostel, he’d have been fine. But he would have also been exhausted and over-stretched, and he’d have been miserable. Now, the hill feels like joy, and Athos pedals, speeding up. 

They catch up to Ninon and some stragglers after two more hills, racing a little again. Porthos likes going downhill, and he has the muscle to push himself faster, and the weight to make the bike gain momentum. Athos has been keeping pace through stubbornness and superior fitness which means he doesn’t have to slacken his effort as much as Porthos. They make it to the youth hostel in a mob of other riders, and Porthos is drawn into an excited conversation about dinner while they lock their bikes up and troop inside. 

Their bags have been brought by car, by Constance’s partner Sylvie. She’s waiting for them by the desk, with Constance, who’s talking to the guy working behind the counter. She gives them bags and room numbers, and Athos, who is very thankful that he did decide to get a room to himself, goes to dump everything, strip, and stand for twenty minutes under a boiling hot shower. When he’s done he gets into his soft joggers and jumper, leaves his feet bare, ties up his hair, and sits on the bed, unsure what to do next. Sylvie said dinner would be an hour. He could go see if anyone is in the common room, but he didn’t really notice anyone, except Porthos who is probably busy. Porthos seemed to notice everyone, and be noticed. He’ll have made other friends, by now. Athos feels horribly like he’s at school, and he knows he’s projecting thoughts onto others. In all likelihood, Porthos is sat in the common room and Athos should go and see and introduce himself, and all would be fine. He can’t be bothered to fight his automatic thoughts, though. He’s just decided to sit in the dark for the half hour till dinner, when there’s a knock on the door. He waits, but it comes again, so he gets up and goes to see. 

“Hey,” Porthos says. “Ah, you showered, too. Nice jumper.”

Athos looks down, and remembers that there’s a very grumpy looking cat on the front, care of Aramis who gifted him the jumper. He forgets it, it’s just a schlepping about at home jumper. Athos crosses his arms over the picture, but Porthos is peering at it, trying to get a better look, and he reaches out to tug at Athos’s arm. Athos lets him, surprised. 

“That’s a cute cat,” Porthos says. “I have two at home, and some fish. I wanted a dog, but I can’t walk a dog and haven’t really got the time, so cats and fish it is. I love my cats, anyway. I would probably have got some cats and a dog. I’m thinking of getting a third, because my neighbour has kittens right now, and they’re so sweet and fluffy and soft, and so so tiny. One of my cats is quite old, so a baby would be good. Just in case.”

“Right,” Athos says, blinking, surprised by the flood of words. 

“Can I come in? Or we could sit in the common room, but everyone’s in there and it’s loud, and I haven’t got a room to myself, I’m in the dorm with about twelve other people, and another group is in there having a party or something,” Porthos says. 

Athos opens the door, and puts on the lights. Porthos sits cross-legged on the bed and pulls a big bar of chocolate out of his pocket, holding it up in offering. Athos sits against the wall, also on the bed, and Porthos gives him a big chunk. It’s almond, and dark, and Athos is really hungry. Porthos has brought clementines, too, and a flask of tea. He talks, hands gesturing enthusiastically, somehow still full of energy. Athos watches him, listens, and nods, feeling peace settling over him. 

“Um, should I leave you alone? Only, you’re very quiet,” Porthos says, hands falling into his lap, after about fifteen minutes. 

“No. Sorry, I’m tired, and not very talkative anyway,” Athos says. “I can try talking more.”

“No, no, just making sure,” Porthos says, perking back up and launching into a story about a hedgehog. 

Athos’s lips twitch, which encourages Porthos to greater heights. He’s still talking when they make their way to the dining room for more food, and Constance sends them an amused look as they queue up with the others for the fish and chips on offer. There’s also some kind of gravy, and limp looking vegetables, and chicken nuggets. Porthos asks for extra veg and nuggets, then turns and looks around. His face falls, and Athos looks, too, but can’t see anything amiss. Porthos heads for a table in the corner and sits, pushing his chair right back against the wall. Athos joins him. 

“Aren’t you going to join any of the other people you’ve made friends with?” Athos asks. “I don’t mind, you can just introduce me.”

“I want to eat with you,” Porthos says, face scrunching up. “This table it rubbish, I wanted one by a window.”

“I still would have eaten with you, with other people. Look, Constance and Ninon are by a window, we could go sit with them,” Athos says. Porthos’s face falls, and he shrugs, grouchy this time. 

“If you like. Thought maybe you liked me, too. I don’t mind though,” Porthos says, managing a little bit of cheer. 

Athos gapes at him, then touches his cheek where Porthos kissed him earlier, and runs back through what Porthos has said to him today. About liking him, seeking him out, wanting to talk to him somewhere quiet and alone, wanting to eat with him. 

“Oh,” Athos says. “Oh! You meant… oh.”

Porthos snorts and gathers his plate, waving it away, but Athos, now he understands, is quite ok with sitting right where they are. He leans over and presses their lips together, halting Porthos. Porthos falls back into his seat and stares at Athos, then beams. 

“Oh?” Porthos says. 

“Yeah,” Athos says. 

“Ok,” Porthos says. 

He’s quiet for a bit, just smiling at Athos while they eat. Then he starts in on another story, and then another. Athos listens, and kisses him again.


End file.
